


on the horizon across the field

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: (ft. carragher), AU, Character Study, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, class of 92, in the future (but not the cool kind of future)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I didn’t want it to,” Gary says, fingers clenched. “You know. I hate having to sit here and butter toast and know that I have nothing else on. I want to be rushed off my feet and take five phone calls at once and put all those slashes back in my name.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the horizon across the field

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> "In a dream world you play for United until you are 85 and then you die." - Gary Neville  
> (Part Carraville, Part Gary/Co92/United)  
> 

The toaster isn’t working again.

Gary bends down to squint at the dials, wincing as his knees creak. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself, turning the dial back and forth with no conceivable sign of improvement. He’s never understood why everything has to be so complicated; in his day, the only settings were _half-done_ and _burnt_. He checks himself at that, grins ruefully. Starting to sound like an old man, Neville.

He eats the bread soft instead, swiping the butter knife back and forth with his brows knit in concentration. On the second slice his hand slips and the knife clatters to the floor with a shiver. “Fuck’s sake,” he says, louder this time, remembering that there’s no one home to hear him. He can’t remember when bending down started to hurt.

 

-

 

At ten o’clock Gary paces the garden, his shoes gently wrinkling the painted grass beneath them. Gary had painted it years ago, drawn stripes of alternating green down the rectangle, outlined it with white. Knew that one day he’d need it. Becks had laughed at it, but then Becks had never really understood. You had to grow old to understand, and Becks never did.

Gary still keeps a wooden spoon in a drawer, next to magazines and DVDs and an autographed picture he’d once asked for as a joke. Most days he’s not sure where the drawer is. Some days he’s not sure why there’s a wooden spoon in there. On those days he comes out and walks in his garden, like now, Just walking. Slowly it’ll come back to him, in drips and drabs and flashes of white. Like a fog. London’s fog, somewhere in Leytonstone.

Other things come back too. How he could (once) throw a ball without his fingers shaking. Or how he could (once) put one foot ahead of the other without having a stick in his hand. He used to run, didn’t he, on a patch of grass not much bigger than this one.

And people would be singing a song. Gary tilts his head back and tries hard to remember, chasing down a slippery forward who was dancing past him; there was red in it. _Is a red, is a red, is a red._ Yeah. Yeah, something like that. All he really remembers is the colour. All he really has left is the colour.

 

-

 

“I dropped my knife today.”

“Doesn’t matter.”  

The firmness in Scholesy’s voice makes him look up with muted surprise. Scholesy exhales and fixes him with his stare, now wrinkled at the edges, worn down. “This is what happens,” he says, just like that, his life made up of matters of fact, always. Gary remembers the day Scholesy decided to buy the house next to his. It was the day after he’d come back from hospital, with the cane. Everything else is a fog except Scholesy, not quite ginger any more.

“I didn’t want it to,” Gary says, fingers clenched. “You know. I hate having to sit here and butter toast and know that I have nothing else on. I want to be rushed off my feet and take five phone calls at once and put all those slashes back in my name.”

One by one they’d fallen out, in order like little soldiers, manager / assistant manager / pundit / hotelier / businessman / club owner, until one day Gary had woken up and realised that his schedule was empty. He unclenches his fingers and stares at his palms, then looks up at Scholesy helplessly. “I wanted to do things.”

Scholesy’s eyes soften. He says, “you did.”

 

-

 

Gary knows he’s odd, in his not wanting to look back. So many people work hard just to be able to remember their name. He works equally hard to forget. There’s this one image he hates, of him and Phil and their dad at Old Trafford, watching the players walking out onto the pitch. The first time they were there. Phil all bright-eyed and excited, hopping up and down in his seat, Gary shushing him, trying to pretend that he was the one walking out instead, dad in the middle absorbing the atmosphere.

He mentions this to Scholesy as Scholesy stuffs him into the car, one leg at a time. “Forgetting is the easy way,” Scholesy says, buckling his seatbelt. “You’re not going to take the easy way, are you, Gary Neville?”

“You’d think I would, for once,” Gary says. But the road they’re driving down right now is the hard way, and both of them know it.

As they turn onto the M62, Gary suddenly thinks of something – the Villa-Leicester game he saw a while back, how Jones slipping past Garcia down the right channel was a moment of inspired genius. They’ve got to pull this up for Monday night. Scotty, where’s Scotty – Gary gets out his phone and flips down the numbers, searching, jolted into existence by this one thought. They can run an entire section on full backs, underlapping and overlapping, pulling the enemy defenders out of positions and making space for the wingers. And Carra, what was Carra going to do? – he could deal with how the centre backs moved to accommodate the full backs when they moved down the pitch – he’ll call Carra after Scotty – and Phil! He’d have to call Phil too, maybe they could use this for Valencia, Gayà could do with some drills in this, and why isn’t Scotty picking up, didn’t he know that they were on a schedule –

The light turns red, and Gary comes to a crashing halt. He’s in a car and Phil isn't here and television no longer knows his face. And the truth blinks up at him on the screen of his phone, _number not in use_.

 

-

 

They pull up to a building just on the outskirts of Manchester and Scholesy nods encouragingly at the white-clothed lady at the door. “I’ll see you back here after the game,” he says. Gary nods and watches the car trundle off, struck, suddenly, by the thought that Scholesy could have let him take the bus. The white-clothed lady gives him a brilliant smile.

“This way,” she says. Gary knows the way, of course. Two right turns then straight on down to room number twenty three.

He’s sitting inside, rocking back and forth on his favourite chair. There’s a half-open book on the table, something about birds, and sunlight filters in briefly through the thick blinds across the window. His bedsheets are a deep, dark red. Gary stands in the doorway, looking down.

“Oh, hello.” Jamie waves at him, and Gary takes the seat offered. “Are you new?”

“Y – es,” says Gary, drawing the word out like the tail-end of a sigh.

“Brilliant! There’s never anyone new around here.” Jamie sticks out his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Gary.”

“Nice to meet you, Gary! I’m Jamie.”

Every week, Gary has to stop himself from saying ‘I know’. Has to swallow the don’t you remembers and we were onces and back befores. He thinks about how he’d always wondered what they’d be like if they’d had had a fresh start, without the football. How he wishes, every week, that he’d never had to find out. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Jamie.”

Jamie frowns when Gary says his name, then brightens again.

“There’s a game on now, isn’t there?” he says, chest a little puffed-out from knowing. “Do you want to watch it with me?”

“I’d love to." I'd love.

Jamie switches on the television and gasps with delight, like a little boy seeing moving pictures for the first time, at the sharpness of the grass. It’s Liverpool against West Ham today. Gary almost wants to laugh with the absurdity of him writing down the dates of Liverpool games alongside those of United ones, of looking forward to a different red. Fifty years ago he’d have considered that a taunt and yelled back obscenities. Five years ago and he'd never have known about this room. When did they get so old – 

It’s seven minutes in and Liverpool go close, Bernard clipping it just over the bar. Jamie doesn’t react. Gary says, “what team do you support?”

Jamie turns to look at him and blinks ponderously, as if it’s a chore thinking of the answer. “You know,” he says slowly, “I don’t know.” He laughs. Gary thinks it’s the saddest sound in the world. “Fancy that! Not knowing. Do you know what team I support?”

“Liverpool,” says Gary, Istanbul. Liverpool, Gerrard. Liverpool, number twenty three. 

Jamie claps his hands. “Wonderful! I always knew I liked red. What team do you support?”

Gary must remember this, he must, he can’t let go of the banners in the Stretford End, the corner flag, the crest. “United,” he says, breathing it out like a sigh of relief. “Manchester United.”

Jamie wrinkles his nose. “So I don’t like you, then?” he asks, his focus now back on the game because he knows who to cheer for.

“You didn’t.”

“How about now?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I think I will. Like you, that is.”

“Thank you. I like you, too.”

Jamie frowns again, like a dormant volcano stirring. He reaches for the remote and turns the sound off, and when he looks back at Gary, his grey eyes are serious and quiet. He says, “will you commentate on the game for me?”

Sky; the word jumps out at him. Outside, with the sunlight filtering in, there’s a sky. Gary clears his throat, tries one more time to flatten his voice; match commentary style, Liverpool playing and emotions out of it. “Taylor wins it in the middle. He flicks it on to Marchetti, who gets it down the left and crosses it into the box - Francis with a header - and it's saved by Cadogan, tipped over. It's back out again and straight into Dupont. Space for Pavlovich. There he goes. Cuts inside. One touch - lovely touch - Reid! Oh, that's a lovely little finish.”

Jamie cheers. Gary has grabbed a scarf off the table and has bundled it up into a microphone. He’s looking at the television, he’s looking at Jamie, the curve of his ears. The jawline. That smile.

“Francis has it again, Carlisle is available, and oh - that's a foul. That was a foul on Francis, without question, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was a yellow card too. Studs were up and straight into the leg. Yes, there it is. Sercombe steps up to take the free kick. It's swung in to Cadogan, who hits it back out again - and Haber clears it behind the line. Corner kick for the Hammers.”

Jamie’s gone again. Gary remembers a nurse telling him how they just fade out in a beat, snap your fingers and they're . He’s staring out of the window, as if Gary isn’t there and the room is cold. Gary looks away from Jamie, away from the television. The game plays on. “They must be playing defensive,” he continues, but now the words are not his own, and the boy taking the corner is blonde. “Schmeichel’s not coming up for this one.”

West Ham float the corner into the Liverpool box. Half-heartedly, Jamie turns back to the game, his head lolling in his chair.

“Can Manchester United score? They always score. Beckham – into Sheringham – and Solskjaer has won it! Manchester United have reached the promised land! The two substitutes have scored the two goals in stoppage time, and the treble looms large!”

Gary’s voice breaks and he hates himself for it. Jamie smiles at him kindly. The television is still on mute, and the room is bathed in silence. No more.

“Thank you,” says Jamie, after a while.

“You’re welcome.”

“Will you stay for the whole game?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay for the whole game.”

“Will you come again next week?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come again next week.”

“Will you hold my hand?”

Gary looks down at Jamie’s hand. Wrinkles dress the bones like rags, and liver spots dot the pale skin like – liverbirds. Do you remember, Jamie, when you never had to ask. When you’d just reach out and snatch it, and be incredibly smug about the fact that you could. And I’d roll my eyes and call you a bastard and squeeze your hand tight to show you I didn’t really mean it. And you’d throw chips at me. Do you remember, we were once, back before.

He takes Jamie’s hand in his own and squeezes it tight.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll hold your hand.”  

 

-

 

Becks stopped running first. Some people fade away but Becks just winked out of it all, sort of in the way you’d have expected him to. Just wasn’t there one day. Just stopped running and even before Brooklyn had called, Gary had found out on the news.

Phil stopped running next. Ever since dad Gary had worried, and Phil had lived far longer, but – but it wasn’t right, to be made to watch him whispering on the clean white hospital bed with the mask on. Not when he was still six years old and had cut himself on the tar road and Gary had to put iodine on it. Not when he was still fourteen years old and turning to Gary with a smile on his face and a cricket trophy in his hands, saying look at me, big brother, be proud of me. Scholesy had stood at the podium and had read out Housman and had looked so small and old and grey.

Butty had drifted. Packed his bags and drifted. Gary wouldn’t be surprised if he was somewhere in Greenland, learning the language and catching fish. It was a thought that made Gary happy, at least.

Everyone talked about Giggsy still, every time the FA Cup rolled around there’d be a goals montage and his would be there, every time they did a poll of greatest players. Giggsy didn’t live in a small cottage in Cardiff, he lived in the hearts of a billion people, running down the wing. Never stopped running.

 

-

 

Scholesy is waiting for him outside and opens the door for him. He never asks how it was and Gary loves him – truly – for that, though he never has to say it out loud. Oasis is playing on the radio. “Turn that racket off, will you,” Gary says. “It’s too loud for old folk.”

Scholesy grins and dials it up louder. _Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide._ Gary tried to play the guitar solo in this, back when he had a guitar. He doesn’t think he can press the strings hard enough to make a sound now.

Just before Scholesy turns into the A5063, Gary puts a hand out and touches his shoulder. “Go right,” he says. Scholesy lifts an eyebrow at him but says nothing. He signals right. There’s no one on the road at this time of day.

They park and take the slow walk in, bronzed statues winking conspiratorially, the security guard hastily retreating when he realises who they are. Everything is much the same, and Gary wishes that the world could always be this simple. His world. Scholesy sits down, his legs kicking above the ground.  

Gary stands, his face tilted to the sun, forgetting everything. The banners in the Stretford End, for every Manc a religion. The corner flag in the wind. The crest. Look, dad, look at the players running out. Look at their shirts and their names. I’m going to be there one day, dad. I’m going to be in that shirt one day.

He closes his eyes and lets his cane fall away. For a moment, he can hear the faint echo of a song he once knew, _is a red, is a red, is a red_. It rolls gently over the painted grass and plastic seats, out of reach.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Title from the appropriately-titled _Never Let Me Go_  
>  1\. Inspired by [this gifset](http://paulscholes.co.vu/post/100407317281/ryan-giggs-and-his-last-professional-game-23), [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MlVw6eGpY5g), [this poem](http://allpoetry.com/Home-Is-So-Sad), the fact that Gary Neville is a force of nature and what happens when forces of nature fade away?, and [Sharon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5670715) (so blame her)  
> 2\. Becks was born in Leytonstone, in case you're wondering  
> 3\. M62 is the highway between Manchester and Liverpool. All the routes they take are accurate I CHECKED ON GOOGLE MAPS; when you're coming back to Manchester / Salford, you take the M602 and either turn into the A5063 on the left or Trafford Road on the right, which brings you to OT. #fact  
> 4\. Jamie has Alzheimer's. I didn't do a lot of research on it, though my granddad has it and I guess I kinda based it on that. He doesn't remember my name anymore.  
> 5\. I MADE UP ALL THE PLAYERS' NAMES this is like......30 years in the future  
> 6\. To clarify: Gaz has a bad hip / what he thinks might be the beginning of Parkinson's, Scholesy's ok!!, Phil had a heart attack and Becks just .. stopped I guess .. to clarify : AU AU AU AU AU  
> 7\. The Housman poem is [To an Athlete Dying Young](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175749); the Oasis song is [Champagne Supernova](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3C7DECI0jU); the Stretford End banner is [For Every Manc A religion](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/10/28/1f/10281f23c781412f065282ddbc96cf82.jpg).  
> 8\. The picture was from 1999 - so Gary, Becks, Butty are 24; Scholesy's 25; Giggsy's 26; Phil's 22; and i'm sad ;-;  
> 9\. Thank you for reading / kudosing / commenting / being a part of this fandom, all of you make my day and I luff you a lot <3333 AND I PROMISE THE NEXT ONE WILL BE FLUFF


End file.
